


a rose by any other name

by rory_kent



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abused John Watson, Acting, Alternate Universe - 1990s, Angst, Boys In Love, Bullied Sherlock Holmes, Crossdressing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Football Player John Watson, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, HIV/AIDS Crisis, Inspired by Romeo and Juliet, Internalized Homophobia, Jim Moriarty is a Little Shit, John Watson is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Pining, References to Shakespeare, Shy Sherlock Holmes, Snogging, Teenage Drama, Teenlock, Twink Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:15:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24725122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rory_kent/pseuds/rory_kent
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has a crush on John Watson. A terrible, horrible, monster that is tearing his heart to pieces. John Watson is the captain of the football team, the most popular boy in their sixth form- with everything a boy could want. But it isn't as it seems. He's got a secret- one he keeps even from himself. Fate intervenes as Sherlock And John are cast in their school production of Romeo and Juliet.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 40
Kudos: 62





	1. How, turn thy back and run?

**Author's Note:**

> hiya! I saw a request for a R&J teenlock fic and I thought I'd give it a go! check me out on tumblr: hey-im-rory

_O me, what fray was here?_

_Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all._

_Here’s much to do with hate, but more with love._

_\- Romeo Montague (Act 1, scene 1)_

Sherlock sighed, slumped in the uncomfortable chair in the school office, head thrown back in boredom. His uniform was getting too small again- his trousers rode up his ankles and his jacket was tight on his broadening shoulders. Not like he was tall by any imagination- hell, planting his feet flat on the floor in this chair was an accomplishment. His father had told him once that growth spurt was coming, just to be patient, how no Holmes male was under 6'.

His eyes flickered around- secretary (dull. 3 dogs. Unmarried. Watches too much telly), nurse’s office (clearly sleeping with the health teacher based on the green turf stains on the floor and the door). The office door creaked open and Sherlock raised his eyebrows. He immediately recognized the demi-god in the doorway- captain of the football team- most popular boy in their year. 

Sherlock bit his lip nervously- John Watson was the most beautiful person he had ever seen. Shaggy blonde hair cut short around his ears and indigo eyes that seemed to see past you- into you. Those thighs, god damn, Sherlock could just imagine how they felt to touch. Oh, to touch such a creature as John!

“John Watson to see the headmaster,” He said kindly to the secretary, hands in his pockets, looking over at Sherlock. The smaller boy flushed a deep crimson and looked down immediately, John furrowing his eyebrows and looking away. _God! He was so stupid! Why did he even look?_ Sherlock could pinch himself. Sherlock Holmes was a _LOSER._ A freak to be avoided at all costs. 

The secretary told John to wait and so he sat in a chair directly across from Sherlock , stretching his arm around the chair next to him. “What’re you in here for?” John offered, giving Sherlock a gentle stare. 

“Oh- I- I um, I got kicked out of Symphony,” Sherlock fiddled with his fingers, “brassed off the conductor.” 

“Nice. I think I’ve missed too many art classes to pass. Not my fault it’s too bloody hard.”

“Painting?” 

“Not smarting off and getting kicked out.” They made eye contact and John giggled. He actually _giggled._ John was mortified. Sherlock felt a warmth in his gut, a glowing shining heat that filled his cheeks and let a squeaky chuckle out his nose. John Watson was smiling. John Watson was smiling at _him._

“Watson, Holmes, my office.” Mr. Stamford poked his head into the waiting room, glaring and pointing at the two. They stood immediately, John had a solid 3” on Sherlock, smiling down at him and raising his eyebrows in a silent _shall we?_ Sherlock grinned and followed him and slouched into another uncomfortable chair in his office. The pudgy headmaster plopped into his chair and glared at them. “Mr. Watson, I’m afraid that you’ll be relinquishing your spot on the football team next term.”

“What, why?!” John looked up quickly, face flushed, knuckles white grasping the arms of his chair. He couldn’t, he couldn’t! If he wasn’t at football practice he’d have to go home and he couldn’t go home because...  
“Sorry, John, but you need to pass your arts credit or I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do. Same for you, Sherlock- really, thought symphony would be a snap.” Sherlock grumbled. 

“Not my fault your conductor’s an idiot.”

“That’s enough cheek, from both of you. There’s only one option here. The thespian club is auditioning for the autumn production- and I expect both of you to happily participate.” John muttered unintelligible curses under his breath before sighing.

“Sorry, I don’t understand, you want _me_ in a musical?” 

“It’s not a musical, it’s Romeo and Juliet.”

“This is an all boys school.” Sherlock stated obviously, John grumbling some more and glaring at a spot on the wall.

“And Lord Chamberlain’s Men were all boys too, Mr. Holmes, I expect to see both of you at auditions tomorrow after classes- you can fill your missing periods with a study block.” Stamford handed them each a poorly designed flyer with the details. “Right, get lost, both of you,” Sherlock stood, but John stayed rooted to his chair, steam practically whistling out his ears. “That means, you, Mr. Watson,”

John growled and left in a rush, pushing the door open with a huff, leaving Sherlock to stare at him as he left. How he loved John H. Watson. A secret little love that he carried like a folded note in his pocket. _Caring is not an advantage, brother dear._ Oh do shut up, mind-palace-Mycroft and go eat some imaginary cake or whatever it is you do. 

Sherlock bit his lip and looked at the flyer clutched in his shaky hands. He glanced once more to the tiny disappearing outline of John before rushing to his maths class with a sly smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for any comments and suggestions!! <3


	2. an honour that I dream not of

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another little micro-chapter while i get my thoughts together for the rest of the story! thank you for reading <3

Sherlock was jittery all through history and biology, his kneecap shaking uncontrollably, his pen falling out from his fingers everytime his mind wandered. In maths, John Watson sat three rows ahead of him in the middle, Sherlock preferred the back. Every now and then John would turn and whisper jokes or clever _smart_ _funny_ ** _human_** things to his neighbors, and Sherlock peeked glances. He opened his sketchbook and began to draw. Sherlock was actually quite good at drawing. painting. All of it. Even if everyone called him a robot. But an art class would mean that somebody else would have to see it, and there was no way in hell _that_ was happening. They would point out all the mistakes he _knew_ were there, reaffirm his belief that it was godawful, belittle him more than they usually do. Not after the time Mycroft had looked through his things and found his sketches. Besides, look what not taking art had done for him so far?

Sherlock’s cheeks flushed red, he could feel a thudding crimson pulse under his skin just at the thought of seeing John again. John in tights. God, he was a freak! Why was this happening to him? Sherlock Holmes was stronger than this- but, seemingly involuntarily, he drew John instead of doing calculus. His nose, his chin, his ears, the soft brilliant quality of his hair, before staring at him. The portrait was leaning back in his chair and smiling an inviting, warm smile only John could smile. The kind that made Sherlock think, maybe, maybe for a single moment that he was safe and wanted and beautiful- he wanted so desperately to be wanted.

“Doodling in class I see?” His professor stood behind him and Sherlock slammed his book closed, heart skipping and eyes widening. How had he not noticed that? Sherlock’s ears flamed and he looked up nervously, feeling the eyes of the class on him. He looked nervously over at John, who was indeed staring as well. “Care to share?”

“Please, sir, it won’t happen again.” His professor laughed and tugged the sketchbook from under Sherlock’s arms, and Sherlock almost cried out as it left his grasp. No no no NO no no _NO NO NO NO NO!_ TIme froze and Sherlock pleaded with his eyes. _Please don’t, please don’t show anyone._

 _“_ I’m sure it won’t Mr. Holmes, you can have this back at the end of the period,” his professor tapped the cover of his book and took it back to his desk. “Alright, now, for those of you paying attention- who has the answer to number 3?” A wave of relief washed over him, slumping back in his seat, eyes peeking over at John, who wasn’t looking anymore. Thank God. 

John hummed as he collected his books, laughing a bit at something Greg said, not really focusing. He watched intently as Sherlock collected his book and apologized- eyes raking over his lanky form, a hive of riotous dark hair that hung in soft curls around his face. He was objectively pretty, anyone could see that...John kicked himself and slung his bag over his shoulder, licking his lip. Why would someone as brilliant and unique and beautiful as Sherlock Holmes ever be interested in him? Football-scholarship nobody- plain and ordinary. What did it matter anyways- John wasn’t gay. He stood up for Harry, he took beatings on her behalf, he washed away spray-paint from her window before she could see- but he wasn’t gay. He couldn’t do that to his mum. Two queers in one family would ruin her, and possibly get John killed by his father. Besides, he liked girls anyways, what difference did it make that sometimes he couldn’t help but stare at the boy in the back of the class- the boy who always knew the answers but refused to tell because he was _bored._ The boy who was always at the table by the pitch during practice, nose deep in a book. It was rather distracting sometimes. John took in a breath to calm himself, squaring his shoulders and trying not to lose his nerve as he approached him. Just be casual. Two blokes chatting. Nothing unusual about that. Come on John, you got this. 

“What were you drawing?” The curly haired boy jumped and turned around, pale skin glowing pink as he stuttered, eyes wide and unbelieving. 

“I- uh, nothing- it’s, nothing, I’m rubbish at art,” John didn’t believe that Sherlock Holmes was rubbish at anything- except maybe talking. And sports.

“I’m sure that’s not true.” John smiled, hoping Sherlock would reciprocate, but he only looked down at the floor. “Speaking of which, are you going to that thing tomorrow?”

“Oh- right, I, yeah. I have to, I guess,” Sherlock shrugged and held his books tight to his chest, willing his heart to stop. Beating. So. fast. “My brother will be furious if I don’t.” John met his eyes and beamed.

“Thank God, I’m not the only one. The guys would probably think I made it up.” The corners of Sherlock’s lips turned in a shy smile, pale eyes sparkling. “Well, I’ll see you later then. Bye,” John turned and left, his heart pounding in his chest. God, he wanted Sherlock. Wanted to tell him that he was beautiful, that he was brilliant. Wanted to claim those soft lips as his own, to touch him, to feel milky skin beneath his palms, to run fingers through his silky hair. To see Sherlock from the pitch and know that Sherlock was _his._ John made it to the next hallway before something that felt a lot like tears began to burn in his throat. He swallowed it down. Not. Gay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hugs and kisses*


	3. let them measure us with what they will

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUditTioNS!  
> p.s. we didn't have any theatre at my secondary, so most of this is based off watching Glee and HSM, please excuse any inaccuracies <3

Victor Trevor was off his feet- barking into his walkie talkie, hand clasped around his clipboard, trying to get this ship to run even _moderately_ well. None of these fucking idiots were willing to play female parts! A dark haired boy with a blue flyer in his hand tapped on his shoulder.

“No! No! Please, put your name on the list over there, we’ll start in a minu-” Victor stopped mid-sentence and drank it in. Thin, with feminine eyelashes and lips, pale skin and pale blue (green? grey? Oh who cares) eyes. He smiled. “What’s your name?”

“Sherlock. I, uh, I’m here to audition.” He squeaked, his changing-voice craggling and breaking. _Perfect. Perfect. Perfect._ Victor could sing a show tune, thank the Lord something was finally going right! Victor handed Sherlock the clipboard that was tucked under his arm. 

“Great. Name here. Take a packet- start learning the highlighted sections,” Sherlock scribbled down his name and took the offered script. He nervously sat in the corner, pulling his knees to his chest and wishing he could turn invisible. He took a shaky breath, scanning the room. Theatre kids mostly, a few stragglers here for their English class. Sherlock tugged on the sleeves of his school jumper, wrapping his hands in the green knit like paws. He flipped open the script and looked at the first highlighted section.

_JULIET:_ _'Tis but thy name that is my enemy._

_Thou art thyself, though not a Montague._

_What’s Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot,_

_Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part_

_Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!_

_What’s in a name? That which we call a rose_

_By any other word would smell as sweet._

_So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called,_

_Retain that dear perfection which he owes_

_Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name,_

_And for that name, which is no part of thee_

_Take all myself._

Great. Just the ammunition Mycroft needed was a video of Sherlock reciting poetry in a skirt. Retribution for that incident with the frosting. But really, that one had been his own fault. Sherlock looked up, blushing. This didn’t seem like such a good idea after all. Just as he began to try and find a way to duck out unseen John H. Watson strode in, sweaty and still in his football kit. The strong smell of sweat and dirt and minty cologne hit Sherlock like a train as he stared in shock- John’s white knee socks were stained with grass and chunks of dirt, he’d changed into trainers, but was still in his thin dark green shorts and sage jersey _Watson_ , number 57. His golden hair shone with sweat. Sherlock bit down on his lip and squirmed a bit, crossing his legs.

“Yeah, I’m here to sign up,” He panted, smiling at the looks he got. Victor looked over his glasses incredulously, and honestly a little star-struck. 

“For, Romeo and Juliet?” Victor snorted, looking him up and down.

“Yeah. Problem?” Victor huffed and shook his head, handing John the clipboard and a script. John furrowed his brows and flipped the pages a bit. 

“Romeo?” He pointed to the highlighted section. 

“You signed up. I decide who you read for.” Victor gave him a hard stare, as if determining if this wasn't some practical joke. John only huffed. “But first go have a shower, and stop getting dirt on the floor,” John smiled and looked down feigning innocence.

“Oh, sorry ‘bout that, mate,” He turned on his heel to leave but caught Sherlock’s eye. They stayed frozen for a half a moment- neither of them willing to give anything away, emotionless, unsure. Sherlock looked away first, pretending to be engrossed in his script. 

John showered and pulled on his uniform, stuffing his tie in his pocket like a baddie. He gave his hair a swish in the mirror, staring himself down. _Just forget it, John. He’s not interested. Hell, you’re not interested. Think about tits or something and pull yourself together._ John pictured a pair in his mind, but he only felt weirded out that this is what he was doing in the locker room after hours. 

“Johno! where’d you rush off to after practice?” Greg called out, pulling on his own shirt across the room. John shook his head.

“Had to call my girlfriend,” He chided, stuffing his script into his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. 

“Yeah right,” Greg retorted, fastening his tie. “Me and the lads are heading into town to get some drinks, you wanna come?” John swallowed thickly. Hell yeah he wanted to come. 

“Sorry, can’t.” John moved to leave and Phillip poked his head out from a row of lockers. 

“What? Why?”

“Just, can’t.” John gave Phillip a blunt glare, and the brunete only rolled his eyes and left.

“John, what’s going on? What’re you hiding?” Greg asked suspiciously, eyeing the bag John was plainly trying to guard. Greg lunged and grabbed the bag, holding it above his captain’s head. 

“Greg, I swear to god, I will _kill_ you,” John beat at him, but Greg laughed and spilled the contents, grabbing the script quickly and looking at it. He snorted loudly and threw it to John. “Greg, I have to do it to pass art, I’ll be off the team and lose my scholarship, please don’t turn this into a big deal.” John seethed, gritting his teeth and flaring his nostrils.

“ _You’re gonna kiss a bloke_ ,” Greg laughed, John’s face turning beet red. 

“Fuck you, Greg,” John packed his things again and gave Greg a hard shove on the shoulder before sulking away. Greg only stuffed his hands in his pockets and followed.

“Oh don’t leave me out of this, I wanna watch,” 

John growled low and brooding but let Greg follow him. They made it to the auditorium. He didn’t see Sherlock anywhere, luckily, so he set his bag down and wrenched out his crumpled script. A queue was forming, names being called. Shit. John quickly read over the lines, a few of the theatre kids laughing at him like he was a fool. Fuck them. Greg crossed his arms and took in the sight, chuckling to himself. John ignored him and ran over the lines again and again in his head, looking away from the page and reciting them mentally. Hell, that kinda worked. He repeated it, making fewer and fewer mistakes until,

“John Watson!” Victor called him and he stepped up to the stage, and Victor coked his head to Greg, “Who’s he?” John smirked. 

“He’s auditioning too.” 

“You! Here. now.” Greg raised his eyebrows and pointed to himself questioningly, “yes, you, hurry up.” 

* * *

“Okay, now faint.” Henry scribbled some notes on his clipboard and looked up at Sherlock. They were in the greenroom. Sherlock swore he might die from how humiliating this was. He was a genius- he should be at Eton or University not at this hellhole having to make a stupid art credit and it was insulting that they'd even ask-

“Faint?” 

“Yeah, pass out, be waifish.” Sherlock glared the big-eared boy down. He balled up his fists and took a breath. He just needed to get this over with and he could go back to his room and hide under the covers and go to his mind palace.

He rolled his eyes back in his head and slumped to the floor, his head hitting the hardwood with a thud. Just then the door swung open.

“Sherlock?! Y’alright?” John cried, rushing to his side, and Sherlock’s breath hitched. When and if he died, and angels did exist, he imagined this might be what they looked like. “Sherlock?” John sounded, scared? Why would he be scared? Sherlock shook his head in disbelief, but John was still there.

“I’m fine, I'm fine, I was acting,” Sherlock mumbled, sitting up and maintaining eye contact- a chocolatey curl flopping into his eyes. John fought back every urge in his not body not to brush it aside. 

“Oh, right, sorry,” John stood up quickly and crossed his arms, Greg gaping at him like an idiot. “Shut up Greg.” Greg closed his mouth but grinned. Sherlock sat cross legged, tucking his longer fringes behind his ears. Henry and Victor were whispering and scribbling furiously. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 yay


	4. but soft, what light through yonder window breaks

Sherlock couldn’t sleep that night. Not like he slept often. But this time he wasn’t hunched over his microscope or writing up analysis or maybe drawing a bit. No, this was different. He _couldn’t_ sleep. Eyes clamped shut, stuffed into his wretched twin bunk. But all he could think about was _john._

_John’s rough, tan, callused fingers intertwined with his own, soft kisses on his neck, John’s arms around him in a slow dance. John’s eyes looking straight into his and saying all the things he needed to be said- all the hurt and the fear and the hatred melting because John Watson had him, John Watson would keep him safe._

He sat up angrily, balling up the covers at his feet and pulling his knees to his chest, swiping at his pesky fringes and looking out the rain soaked little excuse for a window in his room. Mycroft had worked his magic and made sure he didn’t have a roommate, and the empty bed across from him served only as an extra shelf for books and experiments and a constant reminder of his stupid fat brother. Stupid brother who couldn’t stop mummy and daddy from-

Sherlock shuddered and strained his neck a bit. A thread of stars shone, hazed by rain clouds, and Sherlock tried to let himself disappear into those stars- to forget about John and Mycroft and his parents and Shakespeare and look at the sky and be nothing. To throw himself millions of light years away into the cold reaches of space where nobody would ever find him. 

* * *

John Watson rolled around in his sleep, eyes clenched shut, fists balled, neck deep in a nightmare.

_He was at home again, holding his shivering big sister in his arms, hidden in the airing cupboard, neck pressed against the cool metal of the water heater. Harry was crying and she wouldn’t quiet down, he clamped a hand over her mouth but she wouldn’t be quiet, she was whimpering and sobbing and she wouldn't shut up and The Major was going to hear them and- Footsteps in the hall, loud thunderous footfalls of military-grade combat boots. The knob turned and John tried to muffle his own scream at the monster that opened the door._

“John!” Greg shouted, shaking him awake, “John it’s just a dream! Wake up!” John sucked in a breath and clapped his hand over his mouth, eyes wide and panicked as his roommate tried to calm him down. Dark brown eyes searched him, concerned. “John?”

“I’m so sorry, Greg, go back to sleep.” John sat up and scrubbed his face. He needed to shave tomorrow. Greg flashed him a kind smile. 

“Sorry you’re not getting away with it, not after you made me sign up for that bloody horror show.” John cracked a half-hearted smile as his heartrate began to cool. 

“Not sorry about that one, prig.”

“Arsehole,” 

John smiled and flopped back onto his bed, hands crossed across his chest. “Could you maybe not say anything about that to anybody?” John quickly added, nervously licking his lips.

“‘Course, John.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey John?”

“Mm?”

“Earlier, I was having a laugh with you, but, really... It’s okay, um, it’s okay if uh,” Greg paused awkwardly, “it’s okay if you, fancy Sherlock. He’s cute” John leapt out of bed and stared at Greg like he had grown a third eye.

“ _Fancy_ him? The _hell_ are you implying?!” John growled, not feeling so chummy anymore.

“Woah, easy tiger, I just wanted you to know it’s all fine with me.” John snorted and rolled his eyes. "It's _all_ fine, John,"

“Yeah well, I’m not gay, and maybe you should try not to call blokes _cute_ in the future.” 

“Alright.” Greg sighed and looked over at John. 

“Alright.” John bit his tongue and stared at the ceiling. Greg had no idea what this was like, he had no right to say anything. This was tearing him apart- thrashing through him and rotting him from the inside out. He _wasn’t_ a queer- he wasn’t a drag queen, he wasn’t girly or into Oscar Wilde. He clenched his fists before standing up. “Right, well, I think the hall monitors are retired for the night so I’m off out.”

“Where’re you going?” Greg asked worriedly. 

“Out. I just need some air, that’s all, clear my mind,” Greg hmfed and rolled over in his bunk, still a little hurt. John sighed and tugged on trousers, slipping into his trainers and very quietly exiting into the hall and down the stairwell to the side door. He pressed the stopper in to keep it from closing on him and sat on the concrete steps. The chilly fog seeped into his skin. His cheeks numbed and flushed with cold and he exhaled solidly, sucking in a gulp of cool air.

Across the path he saw a single light on one of the upstairs dorms, and the outline of dark curly halo looking out and at the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all kind comments and criticism appreciated! <3


	5. if love be rough with you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for descriptions of violence this chapter!

John Watson’s jaw was slack- eyes wide, heart thumping loud and fast in his chest, ears a pulsing red. _No. Fucking. Way._ His football mates hadn’t seen the sheet tacked to the dorm notice board, but John had stopped in his tracks.

**1992 Autumn Theatre Production!**

_**Romeo and Juliet: CAST LIST** _

**Romeo:** John Watson **(understudy:** Jim Moriarty)

 **Juliet:** Sherlock Holmes ( **understudy:** Victor Trevor)

 **Mercutio:** Greg Lestrade

 **Capulet:** Andrew West

 **Nurse:** William Wiggins

...

John stopped reading and turned around, dizzy. This meant that, onstage, him and Sherlock would have to-

“HA! JOHN! NO WAY!” goalkeeper Sebastian pointed to the poster, the crowd of guys all turning and reading. “Wait, you too, Lestrade?” Greg blushed, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. 

“It’s not a big deal, Seb, just forget about it.” John growled in his most dominant voice. Nobody messed with him (besides Greg sometimes) with good reason. John Watson cut a powerful figure- not the tallest, but the strongest and the fastest player on the team- and the one who kicked more arse than anyone. 

“That’s the gayest thing I’ve ever heard” Phillip laughed nasally, and John sliced him with a glare sharper than a razor blade. 

“Maybe you should quit trying to walk the ball in if you’re so worried about your masculinity,” John snarled, nostrils flaring, fists clenched. The squad of athletes burst into laughter and clapped on Phillip’s shoulder, who was now huffing and mumbling under his breath. “Right, come on lads, tourney’s in a fortnight, let’s go,” John nodded towards the doors down the hall. They fell into chatter, and Greg swept the ball bag over his shoulder and led them out. John watched his team exiting, and realized he hadn’t moved yet. He looked back over to the poster and almost jumped out of his skin to see a thin short boy with a mess of curls reading it as well. Sherlock looked up, cheeks glaring scarlet before looking away. John cleared his throat.

“So, I guess, we- uh-” Sherlock nodded silently, eyes locked on the list. “Could be worse, I guess?”

“Yeah,” Sherlock whispered, “Could be worse.” John couldn’t help but stare, arms crossed, scuffing the floor a bit with his cleat. Sherlock was beautiful. Like a clumsy awkward kitten with sharp eyes that just _saw_ things _._ Oh, to know those thoughts, to see the world from Sherlock’s place, to peek inside that heart and see from the inside out. John wished that he could tell Sherlock- tell anyone. But he couldn’t. He’d be ruined. If he let them in he’d never be able to let them back out again. Sherlock eventually tugged on the strap of his backpack, glanced meaningfully to John and disappeared into the thrum of life. 

* * *

“Tighten up, Watson!” Coach Sholto shouted as John ran up the field, dribbling the ball. Damn, Coach was right, he was practically begging someone to...Phillip knocked into him and stole the ball, turning and moving the opposite direction. John blinked and shook his head. He was dizzy, he couldn’t focus- he felt numb and strange and the blades of grass were spinning and his knees were weak, “Watson! Off the field!” John looked up instantly to see Coach beckoning him over. He jogged across the pitch, feeling like a loser. “What’s the matter with ya, John?”

“Sorry sir, I can’t seem to focus,” John put his hands on his hips and shifted, eyes flickering over to the table by the fir tree where he knew Sherlock would be. There he was, a black mass of fluff hovering over the top of a drawing pad, sketching. He was out of his uniform- it was freetime- and was wearing a ginormous cobalt jumper and tight blue jeans, cuffed at the ankles.

“John!” Coach snapped in front of his eyes, “Jesus, have a seat, drink some water, try and get your head together, alright son?” 

“Sorry, sir, yeah, I’ll just-” John wandered to the bench, sitting and leaning his elbows on his thighs, head between his knees. He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled, watching the team practicing- focusing on Anderson’s form- Phillip needed to be more aggressive or he's have to change positions. John put hands on his knees, rolling his shoulders back and clicking his neck.

He turned, almost magnetically to watch Sherlock some more. The shorter boy was looking straight back at him, and somehow across the 20 metre distance John could see him blush. Sherlock suddenly looked down, snapped his book closed, slipping it into his bag, slinging it over his shoulder and rushing away. John almost stood up to stop him. But held himself back just in time. What was he gonna do? Run over and tell him _No, stay, I like watching you like some sick pervert?_ No, he watched forlornly as Sherlock ran, drowning his sorrows in gatorade. Something was wrong, Sherlock wasn't okay, he could feel it. 

Sherlock rushed back to the dorms, not even bothering to brush his hair out of his eyes, feet moving beneath him seemingly of their own volition. His stomach churned at the memory of John looking at him- caught like a child with a torch beneath the covers. He had been sketching John again. Hell, that’s all he could bring himself to draw anymore. John’s form as he played or sat on the bench or cheered on his mates, calves and thighs toned and flexing. The way blonde locks glimmering in the sun, uniform plastered to his broad muscular chest- a pinnacle of anatomical perfection. Sherlock bit his lip. That was a weird thing to think about, wasn’t it? Normal boys didn’t think about other men’s legs in such detail. But, Sherlock wasn’t normal. God, he didn’t need reminding. 

“Oh sorry!” Sherlock crashed into a crowd of boys as he clambered up the stairwell, his back slamming against the handrail. “So sorry,” Sherlock mumbled and stepped around a brawny dark skinned boy who glared daggers at him, running a hand through his hair to get it out of his eyes. He grimaced as he felt hands clenched around his biceps, pulling him back.

“Where y’going, _freak?”_ A tall ginger with pointy teeth taunted at him as the two other boys held him by his arms. He kicked his feet from under him in an attempt to escape.

“Let go of me!” He yelled as they laughed evilly, rustling his hair with their fists and pulling on his clothes. “Somebody! Help! Fire!” Sherlock remembered Mycroft had told him to call fire if attacked- fire was exposing and universally acknowledged as an emergency. 

“Shut him up, Wilkes,” The ginger sneered, and a hand clapped over Sherlock’s mouth as he writhed. “You’re the freak who got me suspended.” He snarled, landing an punch into Sherlock’s gut. Sherlock screamed, but it all came out muffled and he couldn’t speak- he couldn’t move- they could do anything they wanted- nobody was gonna be in the back stairwell anyways! Not anyone who would care if they beat Sherlock senseless. Sherlock bit down hard on the hand in front of his lips. 

“OW! Little fucker bit me!” Sherlock spat at his face.

“Hmm, so did your girlfriend last night, I can tell, bit your cock didn't she-” He was bludgeoned on the back of his neck by an elbow. Sherlock groaned and wrenched on his restrained arms, kicking blindly at his legs and groin, not landing anything, his cries echoing loudly in the stairwell. The ginger boy leered, pulling back and slammed his fist into Sherlock’s face, white flashing in Sherlock’s vision, blood dribbling down his nose and onto his lips. 

“Take him back downstairs and behind the wall.” They began to drag him down the stairs, his shiny oxfords dragging against the cement steps. He struggled and cried out as they approached the door. 

“Let go of me! You imbeciles, let go!” Sherlock knew it was hopeless, and as he was jerked out into the light- he squinted his eyes terribly, they were behind the dormitory- down a little path that lead towards the tennis courts. Tennis practices were only on thursdays and tuesdays. Nobody would be around here anytime soon. They shoved him down into the gravel lane, the heel of a shoe on the back of his neck, forcing his face into the craggy rock that burned and cut up his skin. 

“Mm, not so smart now, are ya?” A sharp toed shoe hit his solar plexus, all the air leaving his chest with a gasp. He couldn’t catch his breath! He wasn’t breathing! He couldn’t breathe! Sherlock panicked, squirming under their kicks, pulling his arms up to guard his face. Blood was running in deep rivulets down his lips and mouth, dribbling down his neck and pooling beneath him. “Everyone knows you’re a twink.” The dark haired boy kneeled down and grabbed a fistfull of his hair, “You’re probably getting off on this, aren’t you?” 

"Check his pockets, and his bag," Sherlock groaned and moved to protest, but the shoe digging into his back kept him down, elbows and cheekbones scraping against the gravel.

"Ngh, n-no.." Sherlock peered at the feet in front of his barely open eyes as they dug out all his money out of his trouser pockets, the ginger boy pouring out the contents of his bag, his sketchbook landing right in front of Sherlock's forehead. He reached out shakily to protect it, but someone stomped on his hand and ripped it out of his grasp.

"Oh. my. God." The boy called Wilkes exclaimed, flipping through the pages, Sherlock completely and utterly devastated- pounding on the locked door of his mind palace, begging for sanctuary. "These are of that footballer bloke, Jesus Christ," The other boys laid off Sherlock to to get a good look. "Jesus, there's a whole page of just his arse!" Sherlock would not cry. He would not give them the satisfaction of crying. 

"Sherlock? Sherlock are you over here? I, uh- Oi! What are you doing to him?!" John gasped as he rounded the corner, seeing a crumpled, bleeding Sherlock on the ground and a bunch of punks huddled around him. 

"Look who it is, Sherly, it's your big boyfriend here to safe you!" Sherlock closed his eyes. This wasn't real. This wasn't real. 

"You sick bastard, what's wrong with you?!" John shouted, shoving the ginger boy into the brick wall, gripping him by his shirt collar and shaking him, the back of his skull colliding with the red brick. The weasel only smirked. 

"Never took you for a queer, eh, John?" 

John Watson had never punched a man so hard as he punched that piece of shit just then. One uppercut and he slumped back against the wall. The other two made to tackle John but took one look at their friend, one look at the growling lion of a man who had knocked him cold in one punch and made a dash for it. John dropped to his knees, rolling Sherlock onto his back gently.

"Christ, Sherlock, what happened?!" It was obvious what had happened. Sherlock groaned, on the verge of unconsciousness. John shoved all of Sherlock's books back in his bag, slinging it over his own shoulder without glancing at the contents. The last thing the poor lad needed was John spying through his things.

"We gotta get you to the nurse, mate, c'mon," John pulled a limp Sherlock up easily, at first trying to balance his weight on his shoulder, but their uneven heights made it a challenge as Sherlock feet dragged along the ground. He sighed and swept Sherlock up into his arms bridal style. Jesus, did he ever eat? He was what, 6 stone? John rushed down the path, shaking Sherlock every so often.

"Don't go to sleep Sherlock, you've probably got a concussion, you _cannot_ go to sleep." Sherlock only groaned and tucked himself into John, the warmth and the smell of his jersey so lulling, he did blink out a few times, John jolting him awake each time with a nudge. 

"Stay with me, Sherlock, it's all gonna be alright," John prayed that he wasn't lying as he ran, glancing down at the broken and bloodied creature in his arms and realized something awful. Something truly terrible that he wished he'd never known.

He was in love with Sherlock. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 any feedback at all is so appreciated, thank you for reading


	6. blind is his love, and best befits the dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots of angst ahead, you've been warned <3

Sherlock awoke with a start, sitting straight up in the nurse’s office, John sitting next to him, nudging him a bit. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered- John? where was he, what happened...realization hit him and he looked down at his bruised arms. Shit! He scrambled to get off the cot.

“Relax, Sherlock, you’re alright, I’m right here, you’re all fixed up, mate,” John’s hands grasped his shoulders firmly and nudged him back down, and Sherlock’s whole body went slack at the touch. Why, why was John here? Touching him like he wasn't disgusting?

“John, you should go, before someone sees you,” Sherlock mumbled, still dizzy and a bit out of it. “Where’s my notebook, where is it?” Sherlock’s eyes flashed wide and fearful, and John handed him his bag quickly.

“It’s right here,” John cocked his head a bit, looking down at the floor, arms crossed. Sherlock clutched his bag close to his chest, face flushed, eyes averted. “The nurse says you’ll be fine, you had a mild concussion, and you’re a bit scraped up,” John’s heart was heavy, aching in his chest as he glanced up at Sherlock. He looked so small, so vulnerable, and John resisted every. fucking. urge. in his body not to reach out and hold him again, to wrap around him and keep him safe. 

“S’fine,” Sherlock pulled his backpack over his shoulders and slipped off the cot, avoiding eye contact. He moved to the door but John stood up quickly.

“Wait, Sherlock, what do you mean? it’s not _ fine,”  _ John growled and grabbed him by the wrist, Sherlock flinching, expecting a blow.

“Sorry,” Sherlock whispered, eyes screwed shut. John instantly let go, guilt hitting him like a train. Stupid,  _ stupid  _ John, he’s in pain you idiot! The idea that Sherlock was _scared_ of him was nauseating. 

“No, Sherlock, I just meant, they hurt you, that was wrong.” John said softly, as if speaking to a frightened puppy. “You didn’t deserve that.” Sherlock shook his head, turning and looking at the wall, his floof of curly hair ruffling back and forth.

“Yes, I did. You need to go before someone sees you,” Sherlock whispered tensely, eyeing the closed blinds to the little window in the door. 

“What the  _ hell _ are you talking about, Sherlock? I don’t care if someone sees me here, you’re my friend.” Sherlock’s heart plummeted and tears filled his eyes. Nobody. Nobody had ever called him that before. Not even Mycroft when they were children. 

“You know what I’m talking about, John. I know what you saw.” Sherlock clutched his bag, the thought of John seeing his sketches felt like a thousand needles on his skin. 

“I saw nothing, Sherlock, nothing but some pompous bastards hurting someone who couldn’t possibly defend himself. That’s wrong.” John said firmly, searching Sherlock’s face, begging silently for him to look up. There was no explanation that would justify them hurting someone as sweet and brilliant as Sherlock.

“I’m-” Sherlock paused, looking at his feet in shame, letting out a trembling breath, eyes blurry with tears. “I’m _gay_ , John.” 

The room instantly fell into a cold silence. John’s heartbeat skyrocketed, his ears throbbing red. He opened his mouth to speak, to say something,  _ anything.  _ To tell Sherlock- he could hear it in his head, all the things he needed to say.  _ I love you, Sherlock. I want to kiss you, and hold you, feel your skin beneath mine. I dream about you, the only sweet thing of sleep is you.  _ But the words sank into the void of his chest, dissipating into the darkness. 

“I know you need that art credit, John, I- I can quit the play, I’m so sorry about all this, John,” Sherlock spoke softly, his voice resigned, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve. 

“No.” John whispered, the only thing he could find the strength to say. “Don’t quit.” John’s heart palpitated, panic rising in him. He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t stay, he'd give it away. John rushed for the door, swinging it open and quickly dashing out the hall. He hated himself for leaving, after Sherlock had- that was't no, that wasn't right, to say it  _ out loud.  _ Nobody said these things out loud. Not unless you were mad, a glutton for punishment. A life like that would be hell. John knew that. It nearly killed Harry.

Sherlock watched solemnly as John ran. He had expected worse. But still,  _ don’t quit.  _ It, stirred something inside him, something soft and sweet that smelled like dirt and mint. He limped silently out into the hall. 

“Sherlock, jesus! You look like shit!” Victor cried, walking towards the nurses office. “I, uh, I forgot to give out rehearsal schedules, the secretary said you were in here with John,” Sherlock shuddered and shook his head. Victor handed him a sheet of paper.

“No, just me,” Sherlock muttered, eyes glancing over the time table.

“Right, well, try and not get into any more fights. Only so much makeup can do,” Victor quipped and walked away. Sherlock blushed, pushing into the small loo across from the office. The boy in the mirror was hideous. Hair was frazzled and the ends of his fringes were crisped with dried blood. He had bruises on his cheekbones and under his eye, little nicks and a plaster over his split eyebrow. His eyes were dull and grey, his face was strange and alien. He shuddered and looked away. How could anyone love _that_? Why hadn’t John ran the instant he knew that Sherlock was broken and fucked up- that he was a freak in every sense of the word. John Watson was not like him. John Watson was good and golden and lovable and _straight_. Not anything like Sherlock. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it was such a tiny chapter!!   
> thank you for all of your feedback and support! *kisses*


	7. and yet no man like he doth grieve my heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please excuse any fencing inaccuracies <3 i did my best

Sherlock sat up, drenched in sweat, heart pounding in his chest. A nightmare, he supposed, but he couldn't remember much of it clearly- only this uneasiness that that penetrated him, reverberating through him like an electric current. He slung his feet over the side of the bed and fluffed his unruly hair before slipping off his pyjamas, pulling his jumper over his head, his fluff of curls popping out the top. He pulled on trousers, socks and shoes, squinting and looking out his window. The first beams of day shone in, it couldn't be later than 4:30. He riffled through his dresser and pulled out a handful of coins. It had been a few weeks since his last call.

He silently left his room and strode down the hall, the whole block was fast asleep. He tucked his fringes behind his ears and made his way down the stairs, letting the tapping of his shoes against the marble fill his mind, slow him down. He looked both ways before exiting the stairwell and going to the payphone at the end of the common hall. He slipped in his coins and dialed quickly, looking up and grasping the top of the phone, tracing an outline on the polished oak ceiling. The phone crackled on the other end.

"hello?" An old man grumbled on the other end. 

"Rudy," Sherlock breathed out, smiling. 

"Oh my dear chap, it is so good to hear that voice, Siger, how've you been, how's dear lovely Violet?" Sherlock bit his lips, tears welling in his eyes. Uncle Rudy's memory hadn't been entirely functional for some time now.

"She's fine, we're both, fine," Sherlock leaned his forehead against the cool metal phone box. 

"And the boys?" Rudy smiled. Sherlock grit his teeth at the thought of Mycroft- running the government, fixing elections and scandals like a charlatan. Sherlock had vowed to never be like his pathetic elder brother. 

"They're good too, Rudy," Sherlock feigned a smile for his beloved Uncle. Everyone always said how Sherlock sounded just like his father. "How's California?"

"Oh, it's truly lovey, Siger, you really should come out and visit. Got a lovely little place here in the sun, the four of you would be in heaven. Come and take the boys to Disneyland, won't you old chap?" Sherlock smiled sadly.

"Of course, brother, they really would love that," Sherlock paused, gripping tight to the plastic phone. 

"What is it, Siger?" Rudy sounded concerned.

"Oh, it's just," Sherlock bit back tears, "I never got to tell you, I- I never got to tell you, I was sorry, the last time we talked it was an argument," a silent sob shook through Sherlock, gripping to the phone with both hands.

"That's alright, old chap, please don't cry, we're Englishmen for godsake!" Rudy chuckled warmly on the other end. Sherlock laughed in spite of himself. 

"Rudy, I shouldn't have said those things, about you, and George, it wasn't right," Sherlock paused. Rudy coughed on the other end, a weak and old cough that sent shivers through Sherlock.

"George," He said softly, craggly, "George passed away last month old chap, I thought you knew," Sherlock's heart plummeted. 

"what? What happened?" He quickly slid some more coins into the slot and tried to keep his voice down. 

"Oh, Siger, he'd been sick for some time. Sure, he kept up appearances, but we knew he was dying,"

"we? so you knew?" Sherlock was breathless. "what was he sick from?" Rudy laughed dryly, bitterly on the other end.

"Oh old chap, what do you think? He was positive," 

"For.." Sherlock clapped a hand over his mouth as realization hit him, "No, you can't be serious, Rudy,"

"I really ought to have told you..."

"No, no it must've been something else," Sherlock's voice cracked, blubbering in the dark of the corridor, "can't have been.."

"I'm positive, too, Siger," Sherlock's teeth ground together and he slammed the phone into the wall, tears streaming down his face. "Oh, dear chap, please don't cry, I've lived a full life," Rudy smiled, an infectious smile that filled Sherlock, "I've known love, not many can say they have," 

"Love?" Sherlock scoffed, wiping his cheek with the back of his jumper. "Love isn't supposed to make you sick, Rudy," His uncle sighed. 

"Really, brother, I'm at peace, we spread his ashes in the ocean, and I can see him out my window now, the sun is setting- paints the sky with colours-" Rudy's mind wasn't so sharp anymore, and he let his voice simmer away as he looked out across the bay. 

"Rudy? Rudy are you there?" 

"Oh, I'm sorry, who is this?" 

"It's Siger, your brother, Siger Holmes,"

"Oh! Siger, old chap, how are you? How's Violet?" Sherlock wiped away his tears and smiled, strength in his gut.

"She's just fine, Rudy,"

"And the boys?" 

"They're fine too,"

* * *

"Okay, listen up idiots, I want need my Capulets to the left and Montagues to the right and let's run this again!" Victor shouted as he rangled a dozen or so teenagers with fencing foils. John Watson flipped his saber in his hand, standing to the side with Greg.

"Loving this dying part," Greg chuckled, fumbling around with the bloodpack under his shift. John smirked, watching Victor trying, and failing to wrangle in the warring houses. He eyed Greg mischievously and raised his eyebrows, taking a few steps away and raising his epee in a challenge. Greg smiled wide and matched his gesture. Their foils touched, and immediately John shuffled forward in an attack. Greg stumbled backwards before shifting them backwards a bit. 

"So, Sherlock," Greg said nonchalantly as their swords clashed. John growled and counter attacked brutally, Greg just barely blocking.

"What about him?" 

"How does he feel about this?" 

"'bout what?"

"Oh come on, you're not _that_ stupid-" John snapped his blade forward and grazed Lestrade's shoulder.

John smirked, "you're right. I'm not." Greg huffed and went back into position, rolling his shoulder.

"Then why are you acting like it?" Greg flicked his blade up, shuffling forward, pushing John back. John cocked an eyebrow. "You have feelings for him, and you know it,"

John growled and abandoned his form to attack Greg, the slightly taller boy blocking his hit just in time.

"Jesus Christ, John, see? You're gonna hurt someone, and I have a feeling it's not gonna be me!" Greg pushed on their swords that were crossed in an X. 

"What the _fuck_ are you talking about?"

"Sherlock, you moron, you're gonna hurt him!" John growled, pushing forward like a butting ram.

"Since when did you become so concerned about _Sherlock_? Maybe you're the real queer- why don't you two go fuck in the arse or pick flowers" John spat and Greg's eyes flickered sad and dangerous and he pushed John's sword away, backing up a few feet and glaring at John. John smirked, licking his lips and looking around at the semicircle that had formed around them.

"What would be so wrong with that?" John scoffed and turned his back as Greg glared. John clenched his fist and turned around quickly, punching Greg in the nose, his friend falling to the floor. He tackled him quickly, their swords crashing on the wooden floor. 

"John!" A dozen or so pairs of eyes flashed over to watch Sherlock entering the room, rushing over to the two friends locked in battle. Greg pushed a gaping John off of him and stood, walking over to Sherlock and smiling at him kindly. 

"Leave him, Sherlock, he's not himself," Greg said the last words directly to John, fixing him with a stern glare. 

"Go to hell, Lestrade," Sherlock's eyes were wide as he saw John stand up, avoiding looking at Sherlock. The smaller boy looked desperately between Greg and John before Greg clapped a hand on his shoulder. 

Victor rushed over and pulled out his walkie. "I found Juliet, thank god, I need you," He pointed to Sherlock, "and you," he pointed to John. John muttered under his breath, slipping his sword back into it's sheath on his belt- this was just the bare bones costume for now- but he felt rather ridiculous in tights and a white shift tunic. 

"No, I'm going to walk Sherlock back to his dorm, John needs to cool off," Greg glared at his best friend, hand still clasped on Sherlock's shoulder. 

"Mm, sorry honey, no can do, got death scenes to rehearse," Victor turned, "come on, let's go," John gruffed, arms crossed and followed, but Greg held Sherlock back for a moment, looking into his eyes meaningfully. 

"If you don't want to, you don't have to," Greg was a gentleman, through and through, descendant of a line of Arthurian knights. 

"No, that's alright," Sherlock blushed, folding the edges of his jumper into paws, "thanks, though," He looked up into those deep brown eyes. 

"I'll be right out here, Sherlock, don't hesitate if you need me," Sherlock nodded sheepishly and turned after John and Victor. 

"I need my friar, now please!" Victor barked into his walkie. 

"C of E, sorry mate," Greg shared a smile with Sherlock, giving John a warning look. 

* * *

" _Eyes, look your last!_  
_Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you_  
_The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss_  
_A dateless bargain to engrossing death_ ," John's voice was flat as he recited his lines holding the bottle of water filling in for the posion.

" _Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide!_  
_Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on_  
_The dashing rocks thy sea, seasick weary bark!_  
_H-h-here’s to my love_ ," The words were bitter on his lips as he chugged a sip of water, eyeing Sherlock's motionless form, eyelashes long and dark, lips plush and pale pink. He was flustered, his mouth dry and his tongue numb in his mouth.

  
" _O true apothecary! Th-Thy drugs are- are quick_ ," John fell to his knees besides Sherlock, heart beating uncontrollably in his chest, his breath hitching as he leaned forward, seeing the slightest twinge of crimson in Sherlock's cheeks, the air sucked suddenly from the room.

"thus," John swallowed nervously, "th-thus..."

"THUS WITH A KISS I DIE!" Victor shouted and Sherlock flinched, his eyes wide as he sat up quickly, knocking his forehead into John's chin. "God in Heaven, this is going to be the death of me," Victor pinched the bridge of his nose. 

Sherlock rubbed his sore forehead and looked up apologetically at John whose eyes were fixed to the wall. Sherlock flushed and averted his eyes as well, scratching the back of his neck. 

"You know what, I'm getting a drink. Something stronger than water. I'm going, don't tell anyone, just practice lines or- something," Victor sighed exasperatedly and left, the door swinging behind him, the room entirely silent. Sherlock pulled his knees to his chest, as John sat back on his palms, still staring at the wall.

"You don't have to actually kiss me, John," Sherlock muttered, and John scoffed. 

"What about the party?" Sherlock swallowed dumbly and nodded. 

"oh, yeah, I forgot about that," He paused, watching John intently, fiddling with his fingers nervously. "I really could just quit, John,"

"Sherlock, it's fine, just, _leave_ it," John paused before turning and looking at Sherlock with a dangerous smile. "You know what, you really should've just left it alone to begin with. Wish I didn't know about your, _lifestyle-_ what, was daddy a little too friendly?" John snarled, the vile words slicing through Sherlock, and he instantly regretted them. Sherlock's eyes filled with tears and he instantly looked down at his knees. "Sherlock..." John started to apologize, to say something, but his words caught in his throat at the sight of Sherlock so vulnerable and upset- bruises still visible on his face from the incident a few days ago.

"No, John, don't apologize." Sherlock bit his lip, "I don't know what, made me, like this," He gestured to his body despondently, "I'm sorry, about your father," Sherlock bit down on his lip so harshly it bled into his mouth.

"You're- what?" John shot him a confused glare. 

"Your father, he hurt you," Sherlock paused, "your brother- he's an alcoholic, runs in the family," 

"Alright, who the _hell_ told you that?" John seethed, Sherlock's eyes averted. 

"Nobody," He mumbled, tucking back into his knees. 

" _Nobody_ told you that?" John shouted incredulously, shaking his head in disbelief, "No, for real, was it Greg? I swear to God, I'll kill him..."

"No! No, it wasn't Greg," Sherlock interjected, fringes in his bleary eyes. "I just, saw," John glared in confusion and Sherlock continued, "your pager- and your hands." 

"Shut. up." John seethed, not in the mood for this at all. 

"He was a military man, too, Captain, or Major, not likely a Colonel but it's always a possi-"

"I _said._ shut. up. Sherlock." John growled, but Sherlock continued,

"And you yourself have symptoms of excessive drinking, but you're clean and sober for football, but your brother on the other ha-"

"SHUT UP!" John slapped Sherlock, harshly, the smaller boy collapsing on the floor in shock, eyes wide and confused. He tumbled backwards, gaining his footing before rushing past John towards the door. 

"Sherlock! Wait!" John cried, "I didn't mean to- wait!" He ran out the door, scanning the room for Sherlock. He was crying, stuffing his things into his bag as Greg leaned over him, looking rather concerned. Sherlock mumbled something as he packed his things and ran, and Greg looked up with a seething anger and found John instantly. 

John swallowed cold as he turned away from Greg and went to run after Sherlock. Greg shook his head and ran to John, tackling him to the floor, the slightly shorter, but stockier boy instantly pushing him off, rushing to follow Sherlock.

"John! Stop it, now!" Greg punched John in the nose, knocking him back down to the ground. 

"LET GO, Greg, stay out of this!" 

"No, John, you need to get yourself together. You hurt him- and maybe he's in love with you and maybe he worships the ground you walk on- but you are not entitled to play with him like this anymore. Leave. Him. Alone. Before he gets any worse." Greg shoved him down to the floor and huffed off. 

John sat up, his heart fallen somewhere deep into the chasm of his gut. He hurt Sherlock. _All_ he could do was hurt Sherlock. John felt tears stinging in the corners of his eyes and he swallowed them down.

He stood up, squaring his shoulders and mindlessly wandering to the pitch, finding a ball abandoned somewhere in the stands. It was twilight, frogs croaking somewhere in the night, the field was dark. He began to dribble and juggle the ball in the dark, harder and harder, his teeth grinding as he ran up the field, faster and faster before kicking as hard as he could into the goal, the net swishing as it hit the corner perfectly. 

"I hate you!" He screamed into the void, his knees falling into the grass, falling onto his elbows and crying, hot and powerful tears he'd never let fall. He had not cried in ten years. "I HATE YOU!" His voice mangled and twisted as he hit the ground with his fist. His animalistic keens ached in his chest. He collapsed, pulling his knees to his chest and sobbing. 

_You are a man, John, act like one!_

No, no no no no not now, not now.

_Straighten up, solider, it's for your own good._

Shut up, shut up, shut up. 

_You think I like having to do this John, huh? You think I like having_ you _for a son? Or your dyke of a sister?_

_You're nothing, Johnny, you're no one._

_You're weak!_ The Major slapped him.

 _pathetic!_ He slapped him again, gripping him by his shirt collar and dragging him to the garage. No no, not the garage, no!

_worthless piece of trash, you fat little bastard._

_maybe I should kill you, right now,_

_put the world out of our misery._

_"_ I HATE YOU!" John cried out into the cold of the night, tears drying on his cheeks, completely and entirely _alone_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another chapter for you all, thank you so much for your lovely support!!   
> all comments and suggestions are greatly appreciated!! *hugs*


	8. these violent delights have violent ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a guest appearance from our good friend sonnet 57

Sherlock sat on his bed. He did not know how long he had been sitting here. He looked numbly at the sketchbook in his lap. His eyes brimmed with tears- not like he had ever stopped crying- like the pathetic excuse of a man that he was. He looked up suddenly- there was a knock at the door.

"H-hello?" Sherlock wasn't sure how to answer, nobody had ever knocked on his door before. The knob turned and a dark brunette head popped in, chocolate eyes glowing. 

"Morning, sunshine," Greg smiled, handing Sherlock a mug of coffee. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at the offered beverage. Greg shrugged, "I may have broken into the janitor's break room," Sherlock smiled to himself and took a sip.

"How'd you sleep, mate?" 

"Fine, slept, fine," Sherlock muttered, still entirely engrossed with the steaming liquid. The lie settled between them comfortably. They both knew Sherlock hadn't slept at all. 

"Right, well, first bell's liable to ring any minute now, I'll walk you to class! Where're we headed?" Greg fetched Sherlock's bag from it's discarded spot on the floor and slung it across his own shoulder, smiling wide and genuinely. Sherlock was speechless, gaping as the taller boy opened the door for him and motioned for him to follow.

"L-library," He sputtered, " Hey Greg," Sherlock didn't like the way that sounded, "Lestrade, I mean, why, why're you doing this?" Sherlock whispered, eyeing the hallway suspiciously. Greg cocked an eyebrow, turning around and watching Sherlock closely.

"What d'you mean?"

"You're being so nice to me, you don't even know me," Sherlock looked down, his coffee sloshing a bit as he fiddled. Greg let out a bit of a laugh, turning and walking as if nothing was the matter. Sherlock looked up, incredulous as Greg stepped down the stairs one at a time, hands shoved in his pockets. 

"You're my friend, Sherlock, I care about you," Greg turned slightly, catching Sherlock's eye, meaningfully smiling. Sherlock's eyes welled with tears and his gut twisted. _John_ was his friend. _John_ cared about him. All Sherlock did in return was run his mouth and upset him. Greg gasped as Sherlock began to tremble, his eyes clamped shut and his arms wrapped around himself protectively. "No, no, that's alright, Sherlock, it's okay," He placed an arm around Sherlock's shoulders, squeezing gently and guiding him down the rest of the stairs. 

"Lestrade, please stop being so nice," Sherlock whispered, "You don't know me, you'd run away if you did," Greg tutted and pat Sherlock's back, smile still strong and wide. 

"Try me," He challenged, still guiding Sherlock down to the bottom floor. Sherlock stopped before they reached the door, looking up at his, _friend._ He smiled, savoring it for a moment. 

"I'm gay, Lestrade," Sherlock watched intently, waiting for the disgust, the shock, repulsion. But Greg didn't move a muscle- not a flinch. 

"No shit," Greg laughed, head thrown back as he clapped his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and the smaller boy found himself quite enjoying these touches. "I don't care about any of that, Sherlock, although I do have a girlfriend, so try and resist falling in love with me," Greg posed a bit, fluttering his eyelashes.

"Like that's a difficult request," Sherlock's eyes widened but he laughed, sweet and bubbly and _real,_ and the two friends walked to the library. 

Sherlock could only think about John.

* * *

John threw his head back in a silent groan, leaning back against the hardback of the library chair. His books stared up at him in mockery. How the hell any of this gibberish made sense to anyone, he had o idea. John slammed his textbook closed with a huff, the sound echoing through the high ceilings. He glanced up to see a peaved librarian glaring at him over thick rimmed cat-eye glasses. He swallowed and gave her an apologetic shrug, before his eye caught something. A flash of moonlit skin and midnight hair that disappeared into the stacks before he could register. He stood, his chair squeaking, his blood freezing, chest tightening. 

_Still thinking about Sherlock._

His hands tightened into fists at his sides, crescent-shaped marks digging into his palms. John slowly took a step towards the bookcase opposite his table, and another, and another, his heart beating furiously which each moment, his breath caught in his throat. He pretended to be interested in the rows of books, picking something random and flipping through it, eyes flickering over the edges of the spines of titles. Flashes of ivory skin and curls and green knit and the sweet sound of Sherlock, _giggling._ Like a babbling river, foamy water that crashed over polished stones.

_turn around. Turn around and walk away._

_You're going to hurt him, you know you are._

_You're a Watson. It's what you do._

Suddenly a pair of cat-like blue eyes snapped up to meet his, and John gasped. They were so close, he could feel Sherlock's breath, it hazed the smell of dusty pages and forgotten lore. A single inky curl drooped down between Sherlock's eyes, but he stood frozen, neither quite ready to look away.

 _Run John! NOW!_ It was Greg's voice in his head this time, and his sniffed his still sore nose, fists clenching tighter, but he never looked away. Sherlock's tiny frame closed in on itself, his fingers twisting into knots as he took a step, still looking at John, lost in the deep Atlantic of his eyes, a lonely block of ice floating in the midnight waters. John swallowed, mimicking Sherlock step to the side, moving closer, God, Sherlock could smell it all- the minty cologne, the slight musk of sweat, the hint of stale alcohol from last night. 

Sherlock couldn't breathe, he was breathless, waiting, for something to fill the silence. As John took one more step, rounding the corner of the bookcase, the blonde boy looked over his shoulder quickly before crashing his lips into Sherlock's, pushing the smaller boy against the stacks, hands on either side of his shoulders.

The kiss wasn't gentle at first- a teeth clacking mess of panic, John couldn't think straight. If he thought anything at all this would be over. Sherlock's eyes widened, pure and sweet and innocent before fluttering closed, surrendering his mouth completely, openly, the faint taste of whiskey and strawberry jam lingering between them. John's callused, warm fingers traced up his jumper-clad shoulders, tracing the bare skin of his neck before grasping both sides of his face with a claiming force. His thumbs brushed across crimson flushed cheekbones, his pinkies lost in a jungle of obsidian locks. Sherlock let out a flustered breath into John's strong and violent kiss, John suckling on his bottom lip, pulling the plush delicate skin between his teeth. _John Watson was kissing him. And it was perfect._

"J-John?" Sherlock whispered, and John flew backwards like shrapnel, hitting his back against the rack of books, a few volumes tumbling to the floor. He dropped to his knees to collect them, feeling like a bull in a china shop, hands shaking as he tried to replace them onto the shelf.

"I'm sorry, God, I'm so sorry, Sherlock, forgive me Sherlock," John babbled awkwardly, hands folded at the back of his nape, trying to take a deep breath and calm himself. "I- I should go," John turned but stopped in his tracks when Sherlock caught a bit of his jumper in his fingers, tugging softly, looking down at the floor. His lips were swollen and red, and the soft light of autumn shone through the stained glass windows of the library, casting a kaleidoscope of colour onto his porcelain skin, he looked, Elizabethan.

"s-stay, John, I don't mind," Sherlock whispered, soft and gentle, looking up at John with sterling pure eyes. John only shook his head, his heart hanging in his chest by a thread.

"No, I- I _hurt_ you," 

"So true a fool is love that in your will, Though you do anything, he thinks no ill." Sherlock whispered, grasping tight to John's jumper, standing on his tip toes, reaching a shaky, unsure hand up to touch his face, memorizing every millimeter of tan, sun-kissed freckly cheeks, gaze flickering with intensity into the deep cosmic darkness of the older boy's eyes.

John's soul shattered, tears blurring vision, wanting more than anything to touch Sherlock. But John was so, stupid and damaged, he broke everything he touched.

" _Sherlock_ ,"

"No, John, please, you don't have to tell anyone, I'm not asking you to be anything you're not, just, _have_ me, if you want me, I am yours," Sherlock breathed into the space between them, his face already soaked with silent raindrops of tears. John gaped and pulled away, stumbling backwards away from Sherlock. 

_yours._ It sickened and elated John all at once. 

_mine._ His insides were glowing, but the moment was over in a heartbeat.

Sherlock deserved better- someone stronger, someone less broken, someone who wasn't afraid to kiss him with someone watching. Sherlock deserved everything, to be loved, the right way, good and righteous and pure. John was none of those things.

Then John did something even stupider than kissing Sherlock, he kissed him again. 

Gentle and sweet and soft, a mid summer night between their open mouths, a sky of stars in his eyes. 

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." John whispered, the stronger boy reaching and grasping a single ringlet of black, curling it in his fingers and letting it drop onto Sherlock's forehead before pulling away, Sherlock's teary eyes pressed closed. "I'm ever so sorry." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHH! all comments are so very much appreciated cuties <3 <3 <3 <3


	9. I defy you, stars!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been almost a month since I updated this?? what?? how?
> 
> I'm terribly sorry <3 please enjoy!

Sherlock stood still for a while once John had left- his brain whirring like a computer, thoughts buzzing. John had kissed him. John Watson, Saint John, perfect holy John, had _kissed_ him. Kissed _him._ Sherlock Holmes- the freak. No mind that John had run away and probably was going to never speak to him again. Sherlock had saved that kiss to his hard drive.

Sherlock looked down at the books that lay in a mess at his feet, the wake of their stormy collision. 

_Themes and Motives of_ _Shakespeare's_ _Romeo and Juliet_

His lips formed a sad smirk. He stacked the volumes and tucked them into their places on the shelf, but he kept that one under his arm. _Sentimental are we?_ Shut up, Mycroft. Sherlock shook his head, filled with the smell of _john,_ the golden glow of his skin in the dusty light, the way his lips tasted faintly of jam. Sherlock practically floated, poking his eyes above the books to make sure John was gone first, gracing back to his table, curling himself into the wingback chair, knees folded to his chest, book in his lap. 

_He didn't want you._

The thought hit Sherlock in the gut, his eyes widening in pain. Sherlock had offered, hadn't he? Offered everything. Sherlock was, well, he supposed that it was probably a bit not good how much he loved John Watson. How every little mark on his hands or every scuff on his shoes told a thousand stories, stories he could just hear whispered in that warm deep voice into his ear.

Sherlock wanted to laugh- pathetic, stupid, broken, _idiot_. Idiot for thinking anyone so perfect as John would ever, ever love someone like _him_. It was really quite funny. He really should laugh.

But all he could do was cry. 

* * *

John ran out of the library, much to the annoyance of the librarian, who shouted at him as he ran, his mind spinning. Jesus. Jesus motherfucking Christ. He kissed him. In the library. He'd kissed a _boy._ In the fucking library. His feet slapped against the gravel as he stumbled outside, shielding his eyes from the light and letting out his breath. He heard the bells going off somewhere in the background.

"Christ!" He whispered, leaning on his knees, face flush crimson. "Buggering fuck!" 

His feet carried him down the path, past the science building and to the dorms, slamming the door open- the sound echoing through the silent hall. John fell back against the door, catching the breath he hadn't realized he'd lost. _Sherlock_. Sherlock's lips, soft and sweet and pure, the way his eyes flickered green in different light, soft milky skin that glowed like pale moonlight. He closed his eyes, blinking away tears and running his fingers through his hair. _Get yourself together, John._

"What did you do?" Came a grumbling, sharp voice from the darkened corridor.

"Greg?" John gasped, pushing off the door and stepping forward, looking around the columns to try and see him. "Wh-what- I don't know what you're talking about,"

"You bloody well do know." Greg glared at him, eyes dark and loathing, "I don't even wanna know where you got the paint, but you better fucking clean it before I tell everyone who did it." John swallowed and cocked his head, scrunching his eyebrows in confusion.

"Did what? What are you saying?"

"Sherlock's room!"

"I didn't do anything in Sherlock's room! The hell are you on about?" Greg laughed, scathing and dark.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" Greg shouted, gripping him by his shirt and pushing up against the wall. John growled, shoving him back and adjusting his blazer as Greg only shook his head at him, "Are you that lost, John?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, so for god's sake, shut the _fuck_ up!" John shoved Greg backwards and seethed, "What happened to Sherlock's room?"

* * *

_Poofter._

_Cock sucker._

_Fairy._

John wanted to vomit, reaching a finger out to trace the drying yellow spray paint. His mouth hung open and he looked to the empty corridor, Greg long gone, second bell rung. He turned back to the defaced door of Sherlock's room, his heart heavy in his chest and a boiling anger in his gut, bubbling over as he growled, fists clenched at both sides, closing his eyes and sucking in a breath. How could Greg think John would ever do this? 

He turned once more to check that the hall was empty before jogging down to the janitor's closet, which was thankfully unlocked, and fetching a bucket of soapy water and a scrub brush, praying nobody had seen it. He wasn't looking where he was going and bumped right into a tall angry looking man in a blue working uniform with a shiny bald head. The bucket hit the ground with a thump, a bit of sudsy water sloshing over the side.

"Oh, sorry sir, I-uh, saw some graffiti, I thought I'd clean it, since nobody was here," John mumbled, and the man furrowed a pair bushy dark eyebrows before nodding.

"Go on then," The man grumbled in a thick accent, handing John the scrub brush. John nodded.

"Thanks," He tugged off his blazer, tossing it to the side and rolling up his shirt sleeves. The gruff man came and stood behind him, crossing his arms and watching as John got to work. "I-uh-I'm John," He offered awkwardly, the man eyes glaring into the back of his skull.

"Paul." The man grumbled, not letting up in his stare. "Are you the one who keeps doin this?"

"No, no of course not. wait, sorry, what'd'you mean 'keeps doing this'?" Paul seemed to accept John's innocence and uncrossed his arms, tucking them into the pockets of his overalls. 

"Every few weeks or so someone spray paints this door. I'd report the kid who rooms here, but I doubt I'd decorate my door like that," 

"Yeah, probably not," John shook his head, something inside of him twisting. "And it's always...like this?"

"Pretty much."

"That's...sick," John said, mostly to himself as he scrubbed at the stubborn paint. 

"'ere, use this," The man handed him a rougher brush, and John nodded before getting back at it. "Friends, huh?" Paul's lips turned up into a smirk.

"Not even friends, I guess."

"Right," Paul nodded, clearly not believing him. "Well, live and let live, that's what my nan always said. Put it all back in the closet when y'finished."

John's eyebrows scrunched together as the workman whistled and returned to work. He sat back on his heels, the yellow words only faint stains on the wood of the door, his chest tight and hot inside of him. Fucking hell. He dropped the brush into the water, his teeth grit tight in his mouth. His eyes burned, and he shook his head, wiping his eyes with his sleeves. 

* * *

Sherlock was in a daze as he floated to his second class. John's lips left a shadow on his, a shadow that haunted him with every turn down the hall. 

"Oi! Watch where you're going, prick!" Sherlock tumbled backwards, his books scattering around him as a big crowd of boys pummeled past him. He huffed and got up to his knees, collecting his things into a pile and glaring daggers at the chuffed larger boys, who were all hitting each other in the way customary to adolescent males of the human species. 

Sherlock tucked his hair behind his ears and continued to Maths, ignoring everyone and trying to look like he didn't care that he was alone. He evaded the other desks and plopped into his corner, pulling out his sketchbook and pencil case. Nobody seemed to notice him at all, and that was alright. That was the way it should be. He kept his eyes down, watching his own feet beneath the desk.

"Where's John?" The professor growled to the empty seat next to Greg. 

"He's sick, sir!" Sherlock said quickly, a dozen or so head turning towards him, his cheeks flaring. Somebody whispered to someone else and they laughed. Sherlock looked quickly back to the professor, "He's resting."

The maths teacher seemed to accept this, turning and looking down his notes. Sherlock looked back down quickly, his heart thudding in his ears. He dared one peek up again, and saw Greg, looking at him with something close to pity. That was almost worse, to be pitied. It's not like he didn't deserve it. He hadn't deserved that kiss, he should be grateful.

"you okay?" Greg mouthed and Sherlock furrowed his brows and nodded before going back to his doodles. 

He coloured everything black. 

* * *

John scrubbed his face, pulling on his shin-gaurds and socks, leaning on his knees in the locker room. _Focus, John! Snap out of it!_ But he couldn't, he couldn't keep his left hand from twitching as he laced his cleats. _For fucks sake John, get yourself together. It was nothing. A slip up. Isolation with the opposite sex does that. It wasn't his fault that Sherlock looked like a girl._ John cleared his throat and stood, frozen solid in his feet when he heard it. 

"Jimmy, stop it! Stop it! Someone will hear us!" 

"Mm, good, show them all what a slut you are," There was a grunt, shuffling across the floor in the showers, only a row of lockers to separate the noises from John. 

"Jimmy, the team will be in here in a few minutes, please, stop it, I don't want to do this, not right now,"

"Oh I think you do, sweet little Sebby, wouldn't want anyone to know about your secret, would you?"

"Jim stop! Please, I'll gobble you off, just not this, I'm not even, _prepared,_ " John cringed, pulling his lip between his teeth and sucking in a breath through his nose. 

"Strip, now, and shut the fuck up, and maybe I won't tell your precious team the truth about you- oogling their arses from the goal, you little whore,"

"P-please Jimmy, no, please don't" Sebastian whispered, and John couldn't stand a single second more. He set his glare and turned the corner, not even sparing a glance at his half-naked team mate, punching his attacker squarely in the jaw, the slicked brunet taken off guard, stumbling backwards, and John took his opportunity, dealing a punishing blow to his nose and gut, the greasy boy slumping dizzily against the tiled wall. John went to hit him again, but Sebastian grabbed his wrists, pulling him off of the leering boy. John growled and turned to the blonde curly haired face, that was glistening with tears, his trousers back on, his eyes wide and ice blue and desperate. He looked like Sherlock, just a bit. 

John rolled his shoulders, eyes still glowing with hatred towards Jim, backing off and taking a breath. He shook his head, his skin radiating with testosterone and anger. 

"Nobody, and I mean NOBODY hurts _my team."_ John seethed, grasping Jim by his collar and slamming his head back against the wall. "You fucking bastard, if you ever. and I mean, ever, come near him again, I will kill you."

Jim only grinned. 

"That would be incredibly ambitious of you, but there's no reason to fret, Johnny boy, I've got bigger fish to fry," His black eyes glittered, and John scrunched his eyebrows, a shiver crawling down his back. 

"Stay away from him, I mean it, I'll report you."

"Oh be my guest, and when Sebby here gets his head bashed in, you can be the one to clean it up." John snarled, resisting the urge to snap his neck right then and there. 

"You stay away from my friends, you sick bastard," John's voice was low and calm and he gave Jim another shove against the wall, before grasping him by the collar and shoving him out the door to the outside, closing it and slipping the bolt closed before catching his breath. He turned to Sebastian, who looked mortified, head hung between his shoulders, sitting on the bench and shaking. 

"Seb, y'alright, mate? He didn't hurt you?" John instantly got down on one knee to examine Sebastian's face, bruises forming on his cheek. 

"Fuck off John, leave me alone," He growled, standing up and walking away, grabbing his duffel bag before heading for the pitch. John leaned back on his heels and watched incredulously. 

"Sebastian wait! Stop it!" John cried, the shorter boy just stopping shy of the door. "It's fine, you know?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Whatever Jim was gonna say about you, it's fine, it's all fine,"

"No," Sebastian paused, "No, it's not fine."


	10. serpent heart, hid with a flowering face

Greg was concerned, to say the least. He hadn't seen John at all since practice, which had been tense as all hell, and it was lights out already. Sherlock had obviously been lying about him being sick, and now he was gone. Greg's bed creaked as he sat up and put his head in his hands, wringing his hair and sighing. The graffiti on Sherlock's door was gone, thank god, and Sherlock seemed, well, he wasn't as bad as this morning. Moonlight shone in through the window, casting squares of blue light over John's empty bed and the pictures on his wall. Suddenly, there was a knock on the door, and Greg jumped, rushing to open it. 

"Greg," John whispered, leaning heavily against the doorframe, head lulled between his shoulders, he reeked of alcohol. His eyes were lidded and he had a sloppy grin, "Sorry I'm late," 

"Christ, John, you're drunk, what the hell are you thinking?"

"Not thinking, Ga-reg, that's the fucking point," He tried to scowl, but it just looked sad, and his words were soft and broken. 

"I can't believe this John," Greg laughed, hands on his hips, glaring at his roommate, who was now looking rather sad. "John, christ, lay down, I don't know, try to sleep and we'll figure this out tomorrow,"

"No! No!" John shouted, looking offended as Greg tried to lead him to his bed. He swatted at Greg's hands and grumbled, "I'll dream about him, Greg, god Greg I _love_ him,"

"Right, okay, just lay down then and try to vomit on your half of the room." Greg sighed, tugging John's jacket off, helping him undo his loosened tie. "Did you sneak into town?"

"Nope!" John popped his p and grinned, leaning in and whispering, "secret stash in my locker," Greg growled as John giggled into his oversize sleeping shirt, nose pressed into his chest. "You're my best friend, Greg,"

"Glad to hear it." 

"You know, my sister's drunk too, I bet. You ever think about that? That you could be off your tits one place, and somebody else somewhere else too?" John continued to whisper, as if it were a genius idea. 

"No John, I haven't," 

"Hey Greg?"

"Yes John," Greg grumbled, helping his friend out of his shoes and socks, which was proving a challenge.

"You were right...you were so right," He mumbled, eyes pressed close, "I- I love him, Greg, I love him _so_ much," 

"I know John,"

"And! And he loves me too which is worse. It's so much worse."

There was a moment of silence as John looked out the window forlornly, now only in his shirt and trousers, his glassy and shimmering in the bit of light, tears threatening to fall. 

"I kissed him," John whimpered, “he tasted good Greg. Like honey and shit. Fucking hell Greg he’s beautiful.” 

“Sleep, John,” Greg pulled him sideways and pulled his quilt over him. John was already snoring when Greg pat his shoulder, “sweet dreams,” 

* * *

Sherlock looked into the mirror. He looked ridiculous. Bloody ridiculous. His white plushy hat thing- _french hood_ -bunched his fringe up a bit and the veil across the back of his head was thick pressed cobalt velvet that left him a bit warm on the back of his neck. Victor sat next to him, brushing on his blush and mascara.

"I look ridiculous."

"You look like a girl,"

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

"Yes," Victor grumbled, "and it's your fault we have to do the makeup. Try not to get into a fight before the actual show,"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and adjusted the necklace around his neck, fingers brushing across the lace trim of his- _god lord_ -his dress. Floor length and dark blue.

"I think he looks beautiful," Came the whistle from the door and Sherlock blushed, eyes flickering to see a short, dark haired boy leaning on the door frame. "Jim Moriarty. Hi!" He smiled and came in, "They sent me here for my costume?" Sherlock looked at him quizzically, pulling his lip between his teeth, ears flaring red, this man wouldn't stop staring at him!

"Who are you? I mean, in the play," Sherlock swallowed nervously as Jim stepped closer and grinned.

"Romeo, didn't you hear? John's dropped out," 

"He what?!" Victor shouted, the tin of lip gloss clattering to the floor, his mouth hung open for just the smallest moment before he snatched his walkie from the table and was out the door, shouting and pushing buttons. Jim didn't even turn to watch him leave, leaning against Sherlock's lit mirror, eyes slicing through him like razors. Sherlock couldn't breathe. John, what?

"Oh you poor thing, nobody told you," He tilted his head, as if Sherlock were an adorable puppy. 

"Told me what?" Sherlock glared, eyes burning with anger, fingers clasping and unclasping in his lap. 

"It was a big prank, the whole football team was laughing about it. Told 'em all you were begging him to, well, you know," Jim said sadly, looking down as if he were afraid to continue.

"He said he kissed you, but that's clearly a lie, you'd never fall for a joke like that,"

Sherlock Holmes was falling. Falling so fast and so far that he could barely keep himself from collapsing right there, right then. His lungs were gasping, his heart was tightening so much he swore it might shrivel up and never make an appearance again. 

It was a prank. A joke. It all made sense! It was too good to be true and now he was made to look the fool that he was. _Foolish little queer boy with your perverted fantasies, what, did you think he'd actually like you?_ Mycroft scolded him and his eyes were blurry, his head fuzzy as he looked at himself in the mirror. _Disgusting little freak, playing dress up._ He wiped at his eyes and stood shakily, body trembling. He pushed past Jim, but before he could, the stronger boy grabbed him by the wrists. 

"Don't go, sweetheart, please, God, I am so sorry he did that to you," Jim said sincerely, and Sherlock finally looked at him again. _gay._ He's gay. Look at his hair, eyebrows, hell his underwear! _You'd know the signs wouldn't you? Couldn't tell that John was straight, or maybe you didn't want to. "_ We could talk about it, if you wanted," Jim smiled, looking up at Sherlock through thick eyelashes.

"No, I- uh, I'm fine," Sherlock wrenched his wrists free and pulled down his dress, stepping into trousers and his jumper, not even caring about his modesty. Sherlock Holmes wanted to disappear and never come back. "thanks for telling me," He shoved his french hood towards Jim and ran down the corridor, willing down the vomit that threatened to come up.

_He would rather be dead than a fool._


	11. Be ruled by me, and forget to think of him

Rain pelted the panes of Sherlock's room, his eyes blurred with tears as he sat, kneeling at his bed, as if praying, his head buried in his arms, hot tracks of salt against his cheeks, his lip bit to keep from sobbing. He looked at the pages spread before him on his bed, each sketch and portrait staring back, their sweet eyes turned sour, mocking, and Sherlock keened, pushing them to the side, his nose flaring and pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. He fumbled around for his cigarettes under his mattress, pulling one between his lips and flicking his lighter, but it was out of fluid and could barely spark. 

"FUCK!" He cried before kicking his chest of drawers, hitting it pathetically with his palms, slapping against the wood in frustration. Sherlock shoved all his drawings into the ground, stomping atop them, rivulets of curls sticking to his bleary skin, fists clenched. 

He gasped when there was a knock, his lungs devoid of air as he gathered the evidence and shoved it beneath his bed before wiping at his eyes and approaching the door.

"Sherl, y'arlight?" Jim. With his puppy-dog eyes and slicked hair, licking his lips and reaching forward, caressing Sherlock's cheekbone with the back of his knuckle, his skin soft and lotioned. "Can I come in?" Sherlock swallowed, his eyes wide and innocent, cheeks flaring but nodding softly, not wanting to be rude. Jim quickly came, shutting the door and leaning back against it, his eyes amorous as his hand clicked the lock. 

"Jim, I-"

"I know," Jim said quickly, stepping closer and grasping Sherlock's face by his ears, harshly pulling him into a kiss. Sherlock gasped and struggled, his lips savagely attacked, teeth clacking and blood dribbling into his mouth, Jim mercilessly biting his bottom lip, pushing him backwards, his feet fumbling for purchase beneath him as Jim pushed him onto his bed, hands grasping at his wrists and pulling them up beside his head with sweaty palms. 

"You deserve better, Sherl," Jim whispered, sucking marks along Sherlock's pale, pure white neck, bruising pink and crimson beneath his blood soaked lips, nibbling and grinning as Sherlock yelped, tugging at his wrists, his heart racing. "He used you like a piece of rubbish,"

"Jim- I-" Sherlock wriggled, Jim was heavy, pushing him up his bed, pressing a knee between his legs, his hands grasping at Sherlock's shoulders, tugging at his pyjama top, tugging it up over Sherlock's arms. "Jim, stop, I don't even know you, stop this," Sherlock cried, his tears flowing once again, his chest tight, he couldn't breathe, Jim was so heavy on top of him and he just wanted up, he didn't want to be kiss him.

"Shhh, that's it, I think you're beautiful, even if John thinks you're nothing. Just a freak to them,"

Sherlock cried, deciding now he was going to scream, and Jim seemed to anticipate this, clasping his hand over Sherlock's mouth, using his free hand to tug down his trousers. 

"You're so pretty, so pretty, I think you want it, want it so badly don't you,"

"Stop," Sherlock mumbled into his sweaty hand, his nostrils flaring in panic as he tried to get air, everything was hot and sticky and too close, too hot and too close and he wanted to disappear. "Stop, I'll tell,"

"Who's going to believe _you?_ Everybody knows you want it," Sherlock writhed, struggling and biting at the hand in front of his mouth. Sherlock whined, Jim glaring down at him with beady black eyes, his lips turned into a sick smile. "That's right, fight it, princess, I like it when you struggle."

Sherlock closed his eyes, the door to his mind palace finally burst open and he crawled inside, quickly closing the bolt and rushing down into the basement. He'd be safe in here, it's just transport after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry these chapters have been so short!!! I've been rather caught up with another work, but I love this story so much, I promise I won't abandon him, I just need to wait for some extra energy to finish it!! <3


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